The Crucifixion

He hangs alone
stripped of all he had,
naked and vulnerable.
I am an offering.

A crown of thorns,
a body pierced and torn,
still he thirsts for souls.
I am an offering.

Avenging angels wait
for his command.
Instead he speaks forgiveness.
I am an offering.

Death, forever hungry,
leaps at the prize
and eternal life begins.
I am an offering.

The carrying of the cross

Kings, queens and fishermen,
each one carries a cross,
and staggers on a weary road
of battles won or lost.

And when we climb the hill
and gaze into the night,
the mourners don their robes
and cowards shake in fright.

Lord, wither can we go
to flee our certain fate?
Your cross a refuge sure
for those who pray and wait.

The crowning with thorns

A king's crown should be made
of flashing gems, of purest gold,
bright as angel's wings,
stupendous to behold.

They wove his crown of thorns,
prickly as the human heart,
the rose turned hard and cold,
creation ripped apart.

The garden we destroyed,
the mockery borne in our stead,
the torture of our fall,
came down upon his head.

The scourging at the pillar

The soldier grunts
and swings the lash
with the cruel strength
of those who hate.

Why have you, why have you deserved this fate?

His comrades jeer
and mock and count
each cutting blow
with vicious glee.

What have I, what have I done to thee?

His blood splatters
upon the ground,
the soldier's face,
the ancient stones.

Is this how, is this how the lamb atones?

The agony in the garden

A tranquil garden,
the wind fragrant with flowers,
the vines groaning with fruit,
bird-song mingling with the laughter
of a man, a woman and a snake.

A rocky garden,
the wind heavy with a city's stink,
the vines shriveled and dry.
A man kneels beneath a gnarled tree,
whispering a prayer.

Death came despite the beauty.
Life came from His agony.